A man and his dog, trying to make sense of it. A man trying to cook, while avoiding the dogs Cato like attempts to brain him. A man trying very hard not to complain about his working day. A man of no faith, who worships Birmingham City. A man who loves the sort of music that gets him labelled with bad words. .A dog with little brain but great appetite. Welcome to our world.. a world full of wife, children, cats and vegetables. A good world.

Blues 0 Newcastle 2. It was not so much the defeat that was depressing, nor our inability to create anything spontaneously or off the cuff, nor even the fact we were clearly second best. No the depressing thing was our bookings. Savage, Cisse and Purse. God give me chuffing strength.

Graceless Yanks. I thought it was all supposed to be about dignity and decorum this time. We should let a few zulus in tomorrow.

Saturday being all about sport, I settled my lard arse down in front of the box earlier, armed with a giant packet of crisps and a nice bottle of shiraz to watch Ricky Hatton fight Steven Smith.. As a general rule I am no lover of boxing but some fights and some boxers demand attention. Hatton is one such, although he has several irritating traits. First, he is very pale. Second he is a manc. Third he supports Manchester City. Fourth he enters the ring to an appaling pub rock version of Blue Moon. Fifth his manager wears a beret type effort, which is a completely wanky pose, but I wouldn't say it to his face. Sixth, he has a little disabled kid who watches all his fights and frequently appears in the ring and always sits at his side in post fight interviews. He clearly thinks the world of this kid, so I shouldn't be churlish, but it always strikes me as a bit tacky. Apparently his mom died recently, how would he feel if his hero got badly mashed in the ring? I bet he thinks he's invincible. It will be sad when his dream is shattered.
Anyway, the fight didnt warrant the expenditure on a large bag of crisps, the battle finished way before the crisps did. Smith was outclassed from the first punch and he knew it. Hatton was fearsome. Early in the second, Hatton, in the midst of an onslaught caught Smith with an elbow in the eye before dropping him with some massive body shots. While a mandatory count was going on, Smith's trainer, who is also his dad jumped in the ring and shoved the ref. He then looked like he fancied going a couple of rounds himself. Disqualification for Smith.
Then the real fun started. Jim Watt was apoplectic at the violence on show. The very same Jim Watt who made a good living belting people around the earhole. Barry Mcguigan was appallled at his inability to get a word in edgeways. The funny looking sky boxing dude was no weirder or incomprehensible than usual, though his eyes were madder and starier. Frank Warren was crazy and demanded that the purse was withheld from an entirely blameless Smith, in the process reminding everyone that he is a very shootable geezer.
Then they interviewed the trainer, Darkie Smith. This was brilliant and the likes of which you rarely see. It was completely mad and completely honest. He started by completely dissing the ref, Mickey Vann who was reffing his 100th title fight. He said he was more interested in that fact than anything else and that he was prancing around the dressing room and touching his toes to show how fit he is. He pointed out that Vann had reffed Hattons last 8 fights and made no secret of the fact he thought was a Hatton fan. He completely dissed Warren and said he did not want to remain in boxing while it tolerated people like Warren and Vann. He clearly thought the whole game is fixed. Best of all though, he finished by looking straight at the camera and stating that if he had wanted to hit Vann, he would of, and the pipe cleaner would have been bent. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Hatton remained fairly dignified through it all. It was the best nights boxing entertainment since Hagler smacked Minter up and caused a riot at Wembley. That last one prompted a letter to the Guardian which said something like " I was appalled while enjoying a quiets night bottle throwing at Wembley to witness the spectacle of 2 grown men getting into a ring and belting the living daylights out of each other"

For the first time ever, after buying thousands of records tapes cds and mds, I was driven to return an album to the shop. I felt really bad about it and was quite sheepish but it had to be done. I went really early and sort of crept apologetically to the counter. It was as if I was telling the teenager behind the counter I hated him personally. For which of course I hated myself. Can I change this it's no good I mumbled. Lets have a look he said taking it out of its case. No I said its in good condition it's just that it is er, a steaming pile of poo. Oh no problem, just get something else. Got the Flaming Lips which I am well on the way to wearing out. Man it was hard.